


R.I.P My Youth

by ohrck, Sinsrose



Series: R.I.P Youth [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Drug-Induced Sex, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex, Overdosing, Recreational Drug Use, Underage Drinking, Underage Rape/Non-con, Underage Sex, addict bucky, addict steve, drug dealer rumlow, this is not romanticized drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-13 17:55:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15370122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohrck/pseuds/ohrck, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinsrose/pseuds/Sinsrose
Summary: Maybe it’s because he knew you could survive out there. He knew, that cities have a better chance for kids to start over. So you did. He found an apartment in the summers of you turning fourteen, you started going to simple events in the city to meet new people. Took on a few odd side jobs to get paid. He learned how to live and afford an apartment, the apartment was smaller, but it was still a place to live, not in the best part but it was living right?He was a fourteen-year-old that didn’t look his age. James Buchanan Barnes mostly went by the name of Bucky around people. It was easier to blend in with people, not to mention people took a liking to that nickname. He found it easy to mingle around people in parties, parties not really meant for a kid his age, but here he was talking to people twice his age or even older.How laced drinks were being passed around with something called ‘angel dust’ according to someone’s mouth. How people were leaning back with their heads on other’s laps and laughing. How everyone never seemed sad, just a floaty happy. Bucky at some point was passed a drink, nothing laced within it but a man took a seat beside him.





	1. Alleyways ( Back in 1991, when the story first begun, I remember (I remember))

**Author's Note:**

> Drug use: laced pot with heroin, implied underage sex.   
> Bucky is only fourteen in this chapter.  
> Chapters will switch between two point of views, Bucky being the odd chapters, and Steve the even chapters.

  You left home when you weren’t old enough to be on your own. You left home because of reasons you never wanted to talk about. Ma saw the look in your eyes when he struck at you. She always had known for some reason, what shade it was going to come to. She always could see it in your eyes, she always knew that you’d leave. That you didn’t want to put up with who your father was, what he had wanted from you.The strained relationship the pair of you had. How broken it had become as you grew older. As you expressed more of who you were, the less he liked you. And home life became more fragmented, you wanted to go home less, stay in school more. At some point you ran from home. You left a note at home, explained to your ma. You found the way to book a flight out of state. You don’t know why you picked New York, maybe it was easier housing.  
  
  Maybe it’s because he knew you could survive out there. He knew, that cities have a better chance for kids to start over. So you did. He found an apartment in the summers of you turning fourteen, you started going to simple events in the city to meet new people. Took on a few odd side jobs to get paid. He learned how to live and afford an apartment, the apartment was smaller, but it was still a place to live, not in the best part but it was living right? He was a fourteen-year-old that didn’t look his age. James Buchanan Barnes mostly went by the name of Bucky around people. It was easier to blend in with people, not to mention people took a liking to that nickname. He found it easy to mingle around people in parties, parties not really meant for a kid his age, but here he was talking to people twice his age or even older.  
  
   How laced drinks were being passed around with something called ‘angel dust’ according to someone’s mouth. How people were leaning back with their heads on other’s laps and laughing. How everyone never seemed sad, just a floaty happy. Bucky at some point was passed a drink, nothing laced within it but a man took a seat beside him. Bucky is almost cautious at the drink. Takes a small sip, much to his relief, it’s just a sprite, nothing more, nothing less. The soft ‘Easy kid, we can see a newbie to the pool when we see one.’ It’s soft spoken but enough of a warning that he doesn’t do anything like them. That he’s just trying to fit in and find a place in the world.   
  
“That easy to tell?’ He comments, but he doesn’t let go of the drink.  
  
“It’s the nerves, I can see how anxious you are. You need to just let that go and relax a bit, none of the people here want to hurt you. We’re just all having a good time.’ If you looked closer, you’d see small markings woven between the fingers of this man. ‘Most come here to forget about what they’re trying to leave. It’s why I passed you an invite, you looked like the kind that had moved out here to forgot.’ The man says to him, he had only seen Bucky in passing really. Didn’t know the kid, but figured he’d like the world he was introduced to.  
  
 When you’re a kid introduced to drugs, no one tells you the warning. No one tells you the disclaimer of you’re hooked for life, not when someone else does it with you. Brock has always been careful like that, not to mention that you’re selling your soul by doing this, by pressing whatever it is into your brain, into your mind. Brock always is crafty like that, gets them hooked and then they’ll do whatever to get more, they always do. Because no one likes withdrawals, not a soul.   
  
“It’s just new places, new people. Has that affect, makes me a little anxious sometimes.” Not a lie, not a lie at all quiet frankly, he’s never been good exactly with new people. And not to mention the type of setting here is different. Brock pauses and shifts for a moment, taking a sip of his own drink for a moment.    
  
  “You ever smoke kid? It might ease your nerves a bit.” Brock offers a rolled joint. Mostly because it’s simple and few people really look down upon pot use. Weed is one of those things almost everyone has done once, few people turn it down, not to mention not a lot of people realize it can be laced with a lot of other shit. Like his, it’s laced but he’s not going to sit and tell this kid that. Not when the kid looks so innocent and he became a new face.   
  
 None the less he lights the joint, is careful not to take too much of a drag. He’s already had enough of the actual _drug_ that’s laced in it, in his system. Brock doesn’t need to deal with the spins from that or what comes with not having it in his system. Even though he’s been functioning with addiction for years. None the less he passes the lit smoke to the kid. And Bucky takes it with mostly curious but anxious fingers. He’s careful when he grabs it and brings it to the corner of his mouth.  
  
“Breathe, light kid, the first time always make you cough if you inhale too much.’ It’s advice for the kid so he doesn’t choke on the smoke. There’s this low buzz in Brock’s veins, he’s aware of the flow, how his heartbeat feeling, the etching of how there’s a rush but at the same time he’s just in the same spot. There’s no true way to describe the way high feels in words.  
  
Bucky breathes light. The taste is almost earthy, something he wasn’t expecting. Brock was right however in saying he’d cough. It’s a first-time smoker thing, almost ninety percent of the time they cough. Bucky coughs but not in a harsh way, its more of because his lungs aren’t used to the given exposure to the smoke entering his lungs. It’s a different taste that lingers in the back of his mouth, but he takes another drag. Takes another one because he mostly already likes that earthy taste that lingers in the back of his mouth.   
  
Whatever he was expecting it wasn’t the same feeling he got. How leaning back on the couch suddenly feels like he’s sitting on clouds, and how his nerves are thrumming away. How the exhale from his lungs is a soft thing, and the joint in his fingers feels weightless. Bucky breathes outwards and leans backwards. And suddenly things aren’t so bad, they aren’t so bad. Not when the taste doesn’t linger too much at the back of his mouth. And suddenly talking to people here isn’t so bad. It’s not so bad, not when he’s got a joint between his fingers. If only he knew that thrum wasn’t from just pot alone, that it was a power that had been laced into it, but who is going to tell an innocent kid that? Not Brock that’s for sure.   
  
  
   He ends up mingling at this party. He ends up talking to people, he ends up speaking to people and feeling a lot less anxious than he was when he first came here. The kid settles into a set of mind and it’s easy to float and talk to people but at the same time, there’s points where he’s half draped across Brock’s lap floating. And he doesn’t intend to but here he is lying here like it’s the best thing in the world. And it shouldn’t be a blessing, but it is that he’s able to forget about home for a bit, just focus on the people here. And he’s not aware that hours pass, between listening to the radio, talking and just having his head there in his lap. It’s a high, and he’s never experienced it and it feels great.   
  
  And somehow, he understands how people can spend hours at a time lying like this on someone when they’re floating. Like everything makes sense. Bucky laughs voice soft, suddenly something is a lot funnier than it should be, but he’s cozy here, he feels safe here despite the fact he just inhaled drugs. And some part of him is soft when he asks, ‘Is it always like this?’  
  
‘Mostly. Feels nice right?’ He’s got the kid half draped in his lap. Oh if he only he knew, if only. He exhales lets the kid lie there for a while, lets him drift because really it’s easier.   
  
~  
  
    They don’t tell you were addiction comes from until it’s too late. You hear about it in school, they warn you about it, but you’ve already tasted everything they’ve warned you about. Those parties you said you would stop never stopped. They never stopped even though you said you’d stop going. You got attached to that kind of life, you met names, exchanged numbers. Found that Brock was a good source to giving you this euphoria that you couldn’t imagine.  
  
      He never talked about what he did when he first came out here for a reason. He didn’t talk about the price he paid to get the smoke into his lungs. He didn’t talk about what he did because he liked the rush, the thing about addiction is, no one knows you are hooked until it’s too late. And this was just a fraction of this kid’s story. The way that his fingers curled around- well you know what I’m getting at.   
  
    a simple fix to forget turned into much more, and that summer wasn’t forgotten, not even when he met a certain tiny blonde blue-eyed boy, some things just stay etched in your bloodstream.


	2. Wiped Out ( My current state is heavy, Hope it's a phase or something.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was when he was thirteen that he began to notice it, the way she came home every night more and more drained. She was less talkative, though she always seemed to be making an effort, and she spent more time sleeping. It never improved her energy. He noticed the beginnings of a cough, sometimes listening to his mother hack and wheeze through the thin walls of the apartment all through the night and well into the morning, even hearing her clattering lungs after she closed the door to their little abode and made her way to work. It was something Steve didn’t pay much mind to, at first. His mother never liked to be fussed over, and after all, she was a nurse. She would know better than him, and really he had no reason to believe this was anything more than a particularly bad spell of allergies or a cold or something else. Regardless, he worried. Worried himself into a little fit, especially the day he saw the bloody tissue in the trash can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brief mentions of blood, sickness, and implied character death.

Brooklyn is all he’s ever known. It’s the only home he has the right to call such, with its thousands upon thousands of alleyways and shady individuals and chances to ruin yourself. The land of opportunity, the grand old city of New York with the roads paved of gold and the promises of something better soaring on lying lips; it had been those promises that drew his parents from Ireland. It was hard for him to understand, sometimes, that his mother would have ever wanted to trade the rolling green hills of her country and the comforts of home for air often polluted with smoke and an entire city’s worth of people who would sooner dump her on the streets than accommodate her or her sickly son. But despite all, she loved the place and so did he. She loved the work and the people she cared for, even on the nights she came home spit on and scorned and sometimes with scratches and teeth-marked flesh from those very people she helped. It always seemed so irrational for her to want this life, he never quite understood why. He never asked her. That choice in particular was one of many that he later came to regret.

He never knew a father, either. Not that he was a bad man, the boy had supposed. His father had been a soldier, one of the many unfortunate men to step upon enemy soil and never leave it. Left behind were a wife and a weak baby boy, left to their own devices and to fend for themselves in a world that scorned people like them. It was a miracle that the boy, named Steven Grant Rogers, even lived to be much more than an infant. Steve was tiny, never growing much past five feet and stopping altogether at the age of thirteen. His limbs were skin and bones, no matter how much he ate or how much he exercised, and his childhood was plagued with illnesses and ailments of every kind. But he had the bluest eyes, the blondest hair, the sweetest smile and the gentlest face, like that of a cherub in those old Renaissance paintings. A subject he knew a great deal about, oddly enough, being an artist. There was always a pencil and some notebook of some kind on his person. No one would ever suspect him of anything. He was a darling little boy, if a little small in stature and weight, but he had a good heart and he always wanted to do the best he could at everything. He was compassionate, he loved with such a pure fervor that sometimes it surprised his own mother. He was innocent, but only in a certain sense of the word.

He got in fights, he stood up for himself. Being poor and tiny and sensitive to the arts was a very unfortunate combination of things to be, especially in as merciless a place as Brooklyn. He had more bullies than friends, but Steve Rogers could put up one hell of a fight and everyone knew it. Frail, calloused artist’s hands could throw a mean right hook and it wasn’t uncommon to see him picking fights with kids twice his size if there was an injustice to be committed. He got the stubbornness from his mother, and she never faulted him for any punch he threw, any kick he landed, and all the days he came home with a bloody nose and torn clothes she was there with a rag and a sewing needle. His mother taught him never to stay down, never to retreat or hold himself down simply because someone else insisted it. It was one of the first things she ever taught him, and definitely one of the most important. He could never forget it.

In their tiny apartment, walls adorned with scattered drawings and paintings done by Steve over the years and the haunting photographs of a man he was expected to idolize, it was usually just Steve. His mother was a nurse, and she worked as often as she could- not to scorn her son but simply to make the money they needed. The two of them were a single income family in a very expensive city. Steve worked odd jobs when he could, but he was still ever so little and weak and not good for much of anything, no matter how much and how often he tried to prove himself. He managed to sell art, every now and then, but it was a rare occasion and his mother always made him keep the money for himself anyhow. She was a stubborn woman, if anything in this world was certain. She was taller than her son, but fair-haired and blue-eyed just like him. She spoke in Irish Gaelic, another skill she’d passed to her son, and she was hardened by a life of work. Steve spent the first thirteen years of his life thinking that she was invincible, because there was simply nothing that could tear her down.

~

It was when he was thirteen that he began to notice it, the way she came home every night more and more drained. She was less talkative, though she always seemed to be making an effort, and she spent more time sleeping. It never improved her energy. He noticed the beginnings of a cough, sometimes listening to his mother hack and wheeze through the thin walls of the apartment all through the night and well into the morning, even hearing her clattering lungs after she closed the door to their little abode and made her way to work. It was something Steve didn’t pay much mind to, at first. His mother never liked to be fussed over, and after all, she was a nurse. She would know better than him, and really he had no reason to believe this was anything more than a particularly bad spell of allergies or a cold or something else. Regardless, he worried. Worried himself into a little fit, especially the day he saw the bloody tissue in the trash can.

That was the day he confronted her, wringing thin fingers in the cloth of his shirt. She was sitting at their chipped dining room table with a mug of black tea, circles under her eyes as dark as the liquid in the mug. He stood there in front of the table for a good fifteen seconds before he found the will to sit in the rickety old chair across from her. It seemed another handful of seconds had to pass before she realized his presence, her eyes crinkling as she smiled a soft but tired smile at her boy, her baby boy. The silence hung in the air like the smog of their city, and it was only after a deep breath from Steve that it was broken.

“Are you sick, Mama?” came the quiet mumble of the old speech, her native tongue. It rolled from his lips with practised ease, that he might be easier for her to understand, in a way that made her proud. Steve peered at her with wide blue eyes, gaze searching for the age-old indications over the years that she was fine. Everything was fine. He waited for it and waited for it and waited for it, but the reassurance he sought did not come in the form he had hoped, or nearly as soon as he would have liked.

She regarded him with such an exhausted look, unaware that her son had caught the slight faltering of her smile. “I’ll be fine, Stevie. Don’t you worry, it’s just a little cough.” Her voice is soft as silk despite the way she looks, one hand reaching out to take within it that of her son. She could see in his eyes that the worry was not completely resolved, that something wasn’t right and he knew it. That he had seen something. Her thumb brushed the soft, pale skin of the top his hand, as she had done when he was small and sick in bed with no one to comfort him but her.

Steve was not entirely convinced. But something in his mother’s eyes begged him not to ask again, not to question it anymore. He merely nodded, feebly, enclosed his mother’s hand in both his own and simply sat there with her a while. She only coughed a little, and he scoured the trash for bloody tissues when she had gone to bed. He found no more, but still she hacked and coughed and hacked some more, and Steve was by no means an unintelligent child. Her condition seemed only to worsen, and as much as it terrified him, he pushed it to the back of his mind and left it there as often as he could. Recovery seemed so far from reach, even as time passed and she seemed to have highs and lows and everywhere in between. She never really got better, and that was what scared Steve most.

His mother would not be the first person to teach him this lesson.


	3. III. Flawless ( I Just Can’t Wait For Love To Destroy Us )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brown sugar is a term used for heroin. implied underage sex with questionable consent

Lessons that have to do with this are taught by the way it flows through his blood. The addiction that stems from drug abuse is a choice he made ages ago. It was a choice made that he wasn’t aware of, the moment that smoke touched his lungs, it touched his. It was that simple life, that simple moment of partying. Inhale a simple line of pot, have a good time. No harm done, you were just unwinding for some strangers. It was never supposed to turn into a habit he couldn’t get rid of. Bucky thought his nights of smoking would be over once the summers stopped. He was wrong, Brock had given him his number anyway. He had told Bucky if he had needed anything just to give him a ring, that he always had access to what he needed. Bucky had taken his number on a whim but now he was staring at it in his cell phone for the fifth time in a week. And it was midway through the month of October of his sophmore year of high school.  
  
   It was mostly for weed. It started off as just seeing what Brock had for weed. It started off as something so simple as that. He kept looking for that feeling that he had gotten that one night at the party. The pot for awhile had calmed his nerves like that, but there was something below the surface not being told to him. There was something that wasn’t being given and he knew it at the back of his gut. Quite frankly he could feel the given difference in the _drugs_ that he had that night and the ones that Brock was selling him now.He almost wondered if there was something different, but his mind wasn’t allowed to dwell on it for long because his name was called on in the middle of class. There’s a muted answer from Bucky, mostly annoyed at the answer he gives. He didn’t like the fact he had to retake this class to begin with, he had failed it really from the lack of effort given not because he was bad. Just he was motivated to do his school work. They had let him into the next year if he added this class to one of his spare blocks. It was more annoying than anything.  
  
  
_Real smooth_. It’s a note flicked on the side of his desk. Small handwriting, a small perfect folded note in the corner of his desk. His eyes flicker to the source, a tiny blonde beside him writing away notes while their teacher rattles on about the Germans and the war. He has to resist rolling his eyes for a moment when he flicks the note back over, his own writing not looking much better.  
  
  _I’ve dealt with him twice. He just loves to call on me since I flunked his class last year._ Not a lie, he just wasn’t feeling the number of essays he had to write last year. Plus with the amount of parties he went to last year, well it’s a wonder he got anything done being around Brock quite frankly. And he still had to make a call later to get more shit or at least figure out why his highs weren’t as good. Not that he actually knew that he had gotten laced shit that first night. He had just gotten more irritation after he had stopped using for a week. He hadn’t figured out that it had been hard drug use, no one does right off the bat. Besides, pot didn’t seem bad, and if Brock wanted to introduce him to some other shit he’d be more than willing to try it if offered considering how mellowed out he got out on the pot anyway.  
  
  
_You failed a history class? On world war two?_  
  
I got lazy, I just didn’t like the amount of homework, my test scores were fine.  


_You’re saying he counts everything?_  
  
He’s a pain in the ass.  
  
He’s careful with that last note sent back to the blonde. And his fingers tap out a text on his phone under his desk, not being seen by the teacher. He’s a pro at that by now, took most of his freshman year to figure out how to sneak texting by the teachers, but it’s a hell of a lot easier now when he knows when to shoot out a text.  
  
Msg: You got stronger shit? That high was _shit_ the other night.  
Msg:  Aren’t you in school kid?  
Msg: Do you have anything or nor?  
Msg: I’ve got some _brown sugar_ * you interested in trying that with me?  
Msg: Tell me when and how much.  
Msg: this one is on me, next time you pay.  
  
He slips his phone out of view before anyone can see it, and it fumbles back into his pocket. A soft sigh leaving his lips. It’s so much easier when he doesn’t have to worry about working odd jobs to get the money for the fill for this. Though he’s been known to babysit or even dog walk just to make a means end to pay Brock some type of money. His apartment is mostly covered by the fact his mother sends him money monthly, he won’t touch that money, he keeps it for living. Keeps it locked away and whatever isn’t used just goes towards the next bill.  
  
  It’s only because his mother loves him so much. His father would never agree to it, he rather Bucky do everything on his own, but that man is the reason he left to begin with. He didn’t leave because of his mother; his father was the reason. With everything that man was towards him, it was easier that he had left. None the less, it was what it was, and his fingers are tapping his pen on his desk for a moment as he watches the teacher write on the board again.  
  
_He’s going to call on you, you keep spacing like that._

 _I’ve been paying attention, punk. Don’t worry about me. This is my last class in a day. Not a freshman._  
  
You doing anything later?  
  
I’m busy, I have plans.  
  
Do you want company?  
  
My friends aren’t the type of people you’d hang around pal.  
  
 And he tries to not look at the kid’s face when he steps by them. Tries not to look at the fact the kid looks a little hurt at how he had said that. Because really, Rumlow is not the type of person that this kid: _Steve_ he gets a name as the teacher says something to him as he walks by. Steve doesn’t need to know about his life outside of school. He doesn’t need to see the way that Bucky smokes, see the people that he hangs around. Sees what he does to get a _fix_. Was it even a fix? Not yet but as far as he knew things were going to be good tonight. Things were always going to be good.  
  
  
When he had Brock’s number on speed dial, and he was going to ignore the fact that he might like talking to that kid. It was bad news all over if he started talking to hm. Really.

_  
~_

They don’t tell you how good it feels. They don’t tell you how it’s a steady thrum in your veins. They don’t tell you how soft it is, how good it feels. How it makes everything evaporate, how the pain just melts away in your bones. That it cradles and kisses your skin and gives you this pleasure that you can’t fathom. That it leaves you on this cloud that just makes your head feel light and it makes you seem like you are softly swimming without ever drowning or having the risk of being thrown under.  
  
 There of course had been so many steps to get to this point but Brock had been careful. He had shown him how to prepare, how to make a fix for himself. How he heated this power into a needle and it tuned into this certain color, how it smelt, how he showed Bucky how to expose his veins but also the afterthought of ‘ _you want to avoid using your arms all the time people notice_ ’ as a soft afterthought to the kid. Showed him how he shoots up between the webs of his fingers, and the way Bucky had just leaned back and taken it all in.  
  
   The soft hum settling in his bones. The way he was lying with his head in Brock’s lap yet again, a habit that seemed too real, that seemed too out of place considering how old Brock was and how young Bucky was. It was wrong on all sorts of accounts, but so was the fact that sometimes, Bucky sucked his dick if it meant free pot, and Brock wasn’t the type to go on saying he liked men. No. Most of the time it was when he was just as high.  
  
   But Bucky’s mind was also drifting to the blonde that he had passed notes with. Bucky’s soft voice speaking outload. “Is it easy to get people to try this sorta shit?’ The soft pause, as if there’s an afterthought. ‘I mean, it seems so nice. It’s like I’m on a cloud.’ Not a lie, a soft hum, a pleasant one, that would last a few hours, just once the addiction kicked in, that’s when it becomes hell, but Bucky hadn’t done enough to cause that yet. Not yet at least.  
  
“You thinking of sharing your high _princess_?”  
  
  ‘There’s this blonde, he looks like he could use it.’  
  
  “Be careful, not everyone is as open minded as you. You wouldn’t want them to call the cops on you for using _brown sugar_.”  
  
It’s so much easier when someone doesn’t call a drug by its name. It makes you feel less guilty about using it.  
  
“I could convince him, like you convinced me.’  
  
 “Careful that’s playing with fire.’  
  
 “Not when it feels this good.’  
  
                    No one ever told you, you’d get hooked so fast, but here you are, and playing cards for more than just yourself now.  
  
__  
  
  
  


 

  
  



End file.
